


Warranty of Habitability

by lyrithim



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Depression, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, This Fic Is Funny I Swear, Underage Drinking, Weed, basically a lot of adolescent blues, the top bunk gets no love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrithim/pseuds/lyrithim
Summary: Five times Dex and Nursey shared a bed in the Haus by thetragedyof circumstances. (And once because they declared their undying love for each other.) (Or something like that.)





	Warranty of Habitability

**Author's Note:**

> Haven’t written a story in the “x times trope” format before. Happy to try it out!
> 
> I don’t think the issues referenced in this fic are heavy enough to be classified as depression or alcoholism (more like adolescent emotional fumbling), but I’m tagging them here just in case.

1.

 

Nursey forgot to bring a mattress, which Dex found un-fucking-believable and at the same time 100% Derek Malik Nurse.

“Dude, like, chill, it’s okay,” Nursey said, as he finished toweling himself off by the doorway. “I mean. Did we ever even decide we had to bring one? End of last semester was busy.”

In response, Dex shoved his phone under Nursey’s nose.

**3/12/2016 7:49PM**

**ME**  
I can’t still believe

 **ME**  
That we actually

 **ME**  
Have to fucking

 **ME** **  
** Live together next year

 **NURSEY**  
tehcnically more like in 5 mnths

 **NURSEY** **  
** lollll i cant believe ur stil obsessed over it

 **NURSEY**  
just chill man it’ll be lit (flame emoji) (flame emoji) (flame emoji)

 **ME**  
You’re an embarrassment to yourself. Stop it

 **NURSEY**  
stop what? :D

 **ME**  
You KNOW what

 **NURSEY**  
(flame emoji)

 **ME**  
Oh my god

**3/12/2016 10:25PM**

**ME** **  
** Lardo only has one mattress cuz she had the room to herself so we’ll need to bring one

 **NURSEY**  
dw man i got u. got an extra one from home that we cn use

 **ME**  
Are you sure you’ll bring it?

 **NURSEY**  
lik i said

 **NURSEY**  
chill

Nursey drew out the longest “Ohhh” Dex had ever heard anyone make. Then: “To be fair, that _was_ five months ago.”

“What are we gonna do?” Dex demanded. “We can’t go out _now_ ”—he pointed an accusatory finger at their window; Samwell was currently besieged by a rare summertime hailstorm—“because _someone_ decided it would be a good idea to get to Samwell at midnight instead of some _normal time_ in the _daylight_ when we would at least have _stood a chance_ to snag a mattress—”

“Dex, man,” Nursey said, slinging an arm around Dex’s neck. “It’s fine. You’re acting like sharing a bed with me is some big deal. I’ve had you _drool_ on me on roadies.”

Dex tried to squirm out the lock of Nursey’s arm. Nursey wasn’t even trying to keep him trapped—he was just too damn muscular. Those biceps. “That’s _different_. This is like—”

Nursey tensed and drew away. “What?” he said. “Is this about how I happen to be pan? Because, Dex, bro, trust me, you’ve got nothing—”

And Dex got pissed because he hated how Nursey seemed all of a sudden afraid of him. Afraid of Dex hurting him. So as Nursey drew a chair to sit, Dex dove in for a football-tackle.

What began was a tussle to last a lifetime, and at some point featured Dex hanging upside-down from his ankles, until Bitty’s voice, dipped full Georgian in his sleep deprivation, warned clear and loud, “ _Frogs, if this is how it’s gon’ to be every day—_ ”

And by then they were both on the bed anyway, disentangling their limbs and panting heavily. Nursey no longer looked like Dex had committed an _Et tu, Brute_ and slid a sly grin over instead.

“Well, since you’ve so _kindly_ helped me into bed now, I guess I’ll sleep.” Nursey then clapped his palms together and placed them between his face and Dex’s— _Dex’s_ —pillow. He closed his eyes and pretended to snore.

“You’re gross, you know that?” Dex hissed. “Aren’t you even going to change into pyjamas?”

“No,” Nursey said, sounding for all purposes already miles deep in dreamland.

“This is your plan to drive me out of the Haus, isn’t it,” Dex said, poking Nursey’s right shoulder. “Well, just so you know, it’s not going to work. I’m fighting to win here, Nurse.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m serious. And I want top bunk.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Go change, God.” Dex was now nudging Nursey’s upper thigh with his toes. Part of it was just curiosity now—just _what_ was Nursey’s workout regime, Jesus, _how_ did he maintain it over the summer? “I’m not sleeping next to you when you’re still wearing a shirt that you probably sweated through the entire day—”

“Fine.” Then Nursey took off his shirt and flung it next to his luggage.

Dex didn’t move. Nursey didn’t move. Then Nursey opened his eyes, looked at Dex’s burning face, and laughed. “Dex, just go to sleep,” he said, turning to face the wall.

Now, instead, Dex was now faced with the wide expanse of Nursey’s back. He was in for a long night.

*

“You know,” Bitty said at team breakfast next morning after they relayed the tale, “y’all could’ve just borrowed some extra blankets from me for a couple of nights. It’s not like you _have_ to have a mattress to sleep.”

Nursey raised his eyebrows. Dex choked on his Cheerios.

 

2.

 

Autumn in Samwell was always overdue—caught, it seemed, in summer’s sunbeams and his unbreachable heat. But autumn must have been patient, for she bided her time, until one day summer could hold his defense no more and his dams fell in a rush with the heat, and autumn dove past him into Samwell all at once to sweep her golden touch across treetops and sooth away the last agonies of summer. So the heavens received a new monarch and forgot the old.

Two days after the first leaf curled in old age and rejoined the great earth, Derek offered his roommate weed.

“Yes.”

It was a quarter past one in the morning. Derek, his own mind lost in the haze of García Márquez and Woolf, could not parse out the word at first. “What?”

“Yes,” Will said. And Derek looked up from his laptop. “Yes, I’ll take your weed.”

“Oh.” And there was a lightning of a moment when Derek understood. “ _Oh_. Dude, yeah, of course.” He reached for the bundle of cannabis he had entrusted to a hollowed-out economics textbook for safekeeping. “What changed your mind? I’ve asked you, like, a million times.”

The glare Will shot him could penetrate concrete. “I’m trying to write a program that visualizes a network of adjectives with edges to indicate same versus different semantic orientation. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. Pass it.”

In an hour, Derek was beholding the glory that was William J. Poindexter, high as fuck.

“—and it doesn’t even make sense. It’s a crime against humanity, is what it is—it’s—it’s—” Will blinked up at Derek. “What was I talking about?”

“You’re so stoned right now,” said Derek, giggling. Because he didn’t know either, to be honest.

Will snapped his fingers. Or he tried to. He spent a couple of seconds staring at his fingers, trying to figure out why weren’t working, before he shook himself.

“Harbor Freight,” he told Derek, all of a sudden, intensely.

“What?”

“ _Harbor. Freight_ .” Will took another drag, coughed, then sneezed. “Like I _said_ , it’s a crime against humanity. Never buy a pair of pliers there. The handle freaking—” He made a gesture that Derek supposed he should understand, but didn’t. “It messed up the crown for Elly’s princess costume,” he confided. “But I remade it.” He tapped his nose. “And it was beautiful. And I never doubted Black & Decker again.”

He then smiled at Derek, which is such a rare and sweet little thing that Derek found himself smiling back. Delight rolled warmly through his senses. He really should be making fun of Will more. Whatever. It is but with the press of the weed that Derek was reaching out the careful cage they had built for themselves. Or something.

Will was drawing out his phone and pressing his shoulder against Derek’s, flipping through his photo album to find a teensy little white girl pressing down her princess dress and laughing up at the camera adorably. There was a delicate little tiara on her head. Will was still recounting tales about Halloweens and elementary school piano recitals like a proud papa, but Derek found his attention drifting. The length of Will’s side was so solid and warm—and Will smelled like fresh laundry and something clean and strong—and Will really was dependable, wasn’t he? On ice... in school... in the Haus... A year ago he wouldn’t have believed it, but Will was someone he could lean on for all things—like maybe now—

As his head was about to drop those last precious inches onto Will’s shoulder—and possibly to nuzzle Will’s neck—Derek lifted his hand. That wasn’t quite right. His hand was _being lifted_ by Will. There you go. He looked at Will.

Will, bright-eyed, slid his palm over Derek’s. Their eyes met. Will had stopped speaking, but he grinned, and he clasped their fingers together.

The desire to lean in and kiss Will blossomed in Derek’s mind. But before he could, Will said, “Your hands are really big,” and _he_ leaned forward—their gazes held—their lips were inches away—

And then Will planted his face into Derek’s lap.

Now, Derek wasn’t even shocked by this at first—as far as he was concerned, _chill_ , this was the natural progression of things, wasn’t it? Will was about to give him a blowjob, yeah, whatever. He could be up for that. He could reciprocate later. But then he heard Will snoring into Derek’s right pants pocket, and Derek sort of realized Will was just knocked out by the weed.

“Bro,” Derek called. “Hey. Yo Dex.”

Will shifted but continued to breathe into his pants—and yeah, this was getting uncomfortable for Derek in other ways as well.

Gingerly, Derek leaned back into his own pillows and maneuvered Will so that Will could sleep on Derek’s stomach instead of on Derek’s scratchiest pair of cargo shorts.

Now, despite being pretty under the influence, Derek was perfectly aware of how this would play out, should they stay like this till the morning. He would have to move Will to his own bunk at some point. Cannabis was but a state of mind, and Derek, being the chillest of bros out there, was quite adept in maneuvering in this psychic realm. Derek’s own inhibitions had not been so beaten out to surrender that he would willing shake the tenuous foundations of his and Will’s friendship, which Will had made quite clear would be drawn with the covers of masculine posturing even as they directed the core of it into one of mutual respect and admiration and, most of all, trust—

Then Derek made the mistake of glancing down to look at Will, all curled up and comfortable, a cat soothed and purring. And well. Derek could wait a little. Sober, Will rarely let himself relax as he did tonight. It would be harsh to begrudge him a nap... just like it would be harsh to begrudge himself one, right now...

*

Will didn’t talk to him when he got dressed for his 8am CS lecture the next day, and he seemed startled when he turned around to find Derek looking at him.

“Slept well last night?” Derek asked, grinning.

Will slung his jacket and bag over his shoulder. “Shut up,” he said as he shouldered open the door. He was trying to hide his burning face. “That’s just because of the weed.”

 

3.

 

Samwell scored a stunning victory against Dartmouth, so of course it was party time at the Haus.

The whole gang was there, the whole team and all the recent alumni. Jack was standing next to Bitty, an arm slung over his boyfriend’s shoulders next to a group of sorority girls who had created an impromptu dance floor in front of the kitchen entrance. For the millionth time, Dex wondered how anyone could walk past them and mistake the love in their eyes for anything platonic.

Shitty was regaling Chowder about the trials and tribulations of interning at ACLU—“You’re at the bottom of the totem pole, so you just let people step all over you, brah, there’s no other way to put it. It’s like being hazed every day for a good cause.” Lardo, who had arrived with Shitty and peeled off to check in with Ford, was now demonstrating her prized strategies of winning beer pong with Ransom and Holster as her practice opponents (they were losing badly, just like old times). Whiskey and Tango were telling the new frogs how to be proper tadpoles. Even Johnson, whom Dex only heard about in tales long long ago, swung by to say to Dex, “And _why_ do you think you got Lardo’s room, with a loft bed that was easily converted to a bunk bed?” and walked away.

After all the Samwell Men’s Hockey alumni and current players had gathered at the beginning of the party for some catching-up and shots, Dex spent much of the next two hours in the corner, drinking a little too aggressively, anti-social in a way he hadn’t been since freshman year. And really, he had no excuse for it. He was surrounded by friends. He was doing well in classes. The SMH defense let no goals in for the entirety of the game, and he had a particularly clean intercept that led to a breakaway for Bitty, who buried it beautifully top-shelf. Just thinking about it brought along euphoria that had nothing to do with alcohol.

No. The problem was, as usual, Nursey.

Well, the problem was really with himself when it came to Nursey. It hadn’t been a year yet since Dex had come to terms with the fact that he was gay and no amount of denying or bringing nice girls into his confused headspace was going to get rid of that. It was one of the things that made him really respect Nursey over the second half of their freshman year, when Nursey came out in a simple “By the way, I’m pan” one team breakfast, then fistbumping Shitty. That said, Dex _also_ thought he could’ve settled the whole Congratulations on Your Sexual Orientation thing by—by burying it as deep into his mind as possible. Because even though it’s _Samwell_ , he wasn’t—he wasn’t going to act on anything that would shame his parents.

And there Nursey was, being all confident and easygoing with who he dated or slept with. And there Nursey was, teasing day and night and giving him small compliments between their stupid arguments that slipped right under Dex’s guard. And Dex felt himself drawn into Nursey’s orbit.

Nursey, for his part, had danced with no fewer than five people over the course of the night. He was currently grinding on an attractive student in Dex’s discrete math class last year. Somehow, recognizing them didn’t make Dex feel better. He took another sip of the tub juice.

“Dex! Oi!” Wicks called out, running up to him. “Ollie’s tagging you in on Nursey Patrol.”

Dex spluttered. “W-What? Why? We both agreed—”

Wicks placed a solemn hand on Dex’s shoulder. “My friend, when a bro hasn’t gotten laid as long as he has? You help him out.” He raised his eyebrows. “ ’Sides, we both thought you’d be fine with it!”

“Why the fuck would I—”

“You were staring at him all night already,” Wicks said. He patted Dex on the back. “I’d love to stay, but I’ve got to go to Patricia’s. You know how it is.” He clicked his tongue and pointed finger guns at Dex as he walked away. “We’re counting on you!” And then, just like that, he was gone.

Dex blinked into his cup of tub juice. He better lay off this while he was still sober.

Too late, he realized half an hour later.

It was kind of embarrassing. This was Dex’s third year at Samwell, and he really should know how to handle his alcohol by this point. He also couldn’t find any of his teammates, current or former, so he thought he was obligated to check in with Nursey before hitting the mattress. It wasn’t as though Nursey could do any property damage this late in the night—and that was the whole point of Nursey Patrol in the first place, wasn’t it? To prevent the sort of disaster to their kitchen counter that happened in their freshman Epikegster.

The world was getting into its moving-too-fast territory now, and he had to sling his arms around the wooden beams of the Haus as he sludged toward Nursey. Halfway through, a couple of sorority girls lifted him by the arms and asked him if he was alright. He didn’t remember what he said, but they left him alone long enough for him to complete the last ten treacherous feet to where Nursey was making out with a girl from the water polo team.

“Nurse,” he called and slumped against the side of the staircase. There was no response. The girl was climbing Nursey quite enthusiastically. Dex narrowed his eyes and knocked loudly at the wood paneling next to his head. “Oi, Nurse!”

Nurse finally disentangled himself. Dex expected him to glare for some reason—Dex fully realized he was kind of being an ass—but instead Nursey lit up, eyebrows shooting way up with the sunniest smile on his face.

“ _Dex_ ,” he said. Then, with no chill, he hugged Dex. Dex staggered to keep his weight up.

Yup. This was Nursey drunk, alright. Chowder still didn’t believe Nursey was a handsy drunk, said he never saw it, but Dex guessed that was just because Chowder didn’t do Nursey Patrol often. Having a girlfriend gave you that kind of privilege.

Now that he knew Nursey was pretty gone, he nodded to the giggling girl. “Sorry, he’s—”

“Mari!” cried one of her teammates, ducking in and plucking Mari out like a ninja. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

She shot Dex and Nursey filthy glares as she dragged Mari away. Dex fumbled for an explanation, but in the end could only hope that Mari would be able to explain it better in the morning.

Meanwhile, Nursey was nuzzling into Dex’s neck and saying something about “wanting to do this the last time.”

“If you mean—fucking—being shit-faced,” Dex said, as he lugged Nursey up the stairs, “you’re, like, _very much done_ with that for the evening.”

“Naw,” Nursey said into Dex’s neck. “Don’t really like alcohol.”

Dex stumbled. He might have slid a few steps down. Nursey laughed at him and pawed at him to get up. They managed eventually to get to the second floor and back into their room. They laid on the bottom bunk. Dex didn’t much feel like moving right now.

“You’re a—a lying liar who lies,” Dex told Nursey. He was getting drunker by the minute, which he didn’t think was possible.

“I’m not,” Nursey replied, equally as slurred. “I’m— _chill_.”

“ ’Bout the booze,” Dex said, flipping a hand to state his point. “ _Booooze_. You booze all the time.”

Then Nursey was silent, and Dex assumed he was asleep and was about to drift off himself, until Nursey said, “I don’t like how alcohol makes me feel.”

The words cut cleanly through Dex’s intoxication. Dex—with some effort—turned to Nursey. Nursey looked vulnerable in the dark, eyes wide, no longer smiling.

“How?” Dex asked.

Nursey’s eyes focused on his. “Like I’m—fucking, out of control. Like I can destroy myself.”

Dex’s heart seized. “Don’t.”

Nursey curled to his side, away from Dex. “You’re just drunk right now. Go to sleep.”

“You’re fucking—drunk too,” Dex said. “Don’t be a hypo—hypo—”

“Hypocrite,” Nursey corrected.

“English major,” Dex replied. He sat up and shuffled forward so he could shake Nursey’s arm. “Fuck you, Nursey. I don’t—understand. You always—” he remembered the _really_ bad dancing, air guitar-and-drum solos, and of course, the crowdsurfing, “—look like you’re havin’ fun.”

“I do. No. I don’t know.” Nursey curled tighter into himself. He was pulling in long, shuddering breaths, like he was trying not to cry. “I’m good at lying to myself in the moment. I’m good at pretending to other people.”

“Don’t. Don’t,” was all Dex could say as he attempted to wrap Nursey in his arms. “Don’t. ’M your friend. I’m here.”

*

Nursey was for once the one to look sheepish in the morning.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, which meant he remembered most of what happened too, because otherwise he would be gleefully blasting his music straight into Dex’s skull.

“Fuck you and not getting hangovers,” Dex told him.

Nursey shrugged. “I’m used to drinking a lot.”

Dex stilled. Then he sat up.

“Nurse,” he said, swallowing. “You’ve got to talk to Chowder. And probably Bitty too. When you were laughing at Nursey Patrol, you were trying to make us think there was nothing else to look out for besides a few kitchen chairs when you’re that gone—weren’t you?”

Nursey didn’t respond, just smiled at him sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said, which was worse than any ribbing he had ever done.

“Don’t be sorry,” Dex said. “But promise me that you’ll tell Bitty about this. And if you want, the rest of the team. We can look out for you.”

“Do Nursey Patrol for real?” he laughed, reaching down to pull a new T-shirt from his dresser.

“Yeah,” Dex said.

Nursey stood up. His expression was impenetrable, and Dex understood what he meant by pretending to other people. It wasn’t something Dex found welcoming, that Nursey could hide himself like this even though he was one of Dex’s closest friends. It threatened to pull everything else Dex knew about Nursey down into muddied water. But Dex thought he could understand, at least, this need Nursey had to hide.

“I’ll think about it,” Nursey said. He smiled, a little tired, but this smile wasn’t a façade—Dex knew this for sure. “I’ll think about it.”

 

4.

 

After several months of coordination and Bitty’s frantic pie-making, Jack Zimmermann came out as bisexual on live national TV with his boyfriend by his side.

The Falconers’ manager, George, scheduled the announcement for Thanksgiving Break, and the Haus was empty save for Derek and Will. The watched the broadcast together on the disgusting green couch in the living room, and all the while the SMH groupchat simply exploded with wild encouragements and insults against any reporter that so much looked at Bitty the wrong way. Bitty did not speak, and Jack did not take questions. The speech—containing hopes for other athletes to follow suit and hopes for privacy when it came to their relationship—was over in half an hour. But when the screen cut away from the podium Jack had stood behind to some commentators for ESPN, Derek felt as though the world, even if it wasn’t fundamentally changed in any way, at least shook a little, in this little sphere of ice hockey.

“I think Bitty handled it well,” Derek said, as he walked to the fridge, texting out encouragements all the while. He looked back at Will. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “They both did great.”

He was still sitting on that gross sofa, still staring at the television. There were sports commentators already going at the announcement with the talking point of But This Will Definitely Impact Zimmermann’s Performance In The Foreseeable Future.

“Oi, turn it off, will you?” Derek said, finally deciding on a soda—because fuck it, this was occasion for a soda. “I mean, not that it’s not funny to some degree. You can totally tell they’re really uncomfortable with what Jack said and did not, like, prepare for this _at all_ —” He cracked open his can.

Will whipped around, his gaze focusing on the innocent can of Seven Up Derek was holding. His eyes met Derek’s. Then he tried to cover up for the entire set of motions by looking away just as fast, then glanced up, to the left, and to the right. His face, though, was burning red.

“Chill, Dex,” Derek told him. He held up the Seven Up. “Lemon-lime. Non-caffeinated—non-alcoholic.”

“Obviously,” Will said. “And—and it’s not like I’m going to baby you or anything if it’s beer. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Derek echoed. He was experiencing the odd urges to both kiss Will and ruffle Will’s hair. Since he could conceivably do neither in their contract of manly manhood and stoicism, he settled for patting Dex’s shoulder as he returned to the living room. Dex grunted. Of course.

A month had passed since the morning Derek had woken up with a severe case of cotton mouth with Will in his arms. He avoided Will that day to think things over. The whole embarrassing ordeal. He didn’t want to think about it—which, as he learned from his high school days, was exactly why he should think about it. He remembered every line of his conversation with Will, and he laid out each sentence in his mind and forced himself to _look_ . And he realized that nothing he said was _false_ , and nothing Will said was _wrong_. He forced himself to accept the fact. Then he forced himself to examine his behavior.

He had built up a tolerance to alcohol over the years he had been in Samwell, but the night before was the first time in a long while that he hadn’t drunk so much he blacked out—and that was only because Will had stopped him. He didn’t like blacking out. He didn’t like drinking. He didn’t like himself when he was drinking. Which meant he was drinking for reasons other than having fun. Which meant, probably, it was time to stop. So he told Bitty and Chowder, and they understood and promised to look after him around boozy events. Jack had a long talk with him when he came down from Providence as well.

It was dumb, he would admit now, looking back with the wisdom of seven weeks sober. He was lucky. He wasn’t physically dependent on alcohol the way he knew people’s brains could be rewired to do, but that was genetics more than his own caution. He didn’t go to any of the Haus parties afterwards and played board games with Will and Farmer each time instead. It had the rather amazing effect of making Chowder the de facto frat star of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team, a position Derek ceded gladly.

“Honestly, though,” Derek said, nodding at the screen. The commentators were dishing out names of other past athletes who had come out as gay—“Jack’s bi!” he wanted to shout—and had the rugs pulled from under their feet soon after. “Change it to something else, won’t you? I’m allergic to douche.”

Will seemed to shake himself out a daze. “Uh, yeah,” he said, and switched it off.

Then from deep beneath their feet, in the very innards of the Haus, there was a loud, guttural groan—and then silence. Will and Derek looked at each other, both of them simultaneously aware of the terrible truth.

The furnace was dead.

Around them, the windows shuddered with gusts from Samwell’s first snowstorm of the season.

“I’ll go get my toolkit,” Will said.

“I’ll get the flashlight?” Derek suggested.

“It’s in my toolkit,” Will called out from the cupboard.

Derek did eventually get to hold the flashlight after they had gotten to the basement and Will was persuaded that keeping one of his hands occupied wouldn’t _actually_ make Derek trip over the toolbox. At least, not any more often than usual.

When Will plied open the side of the heater, a strong burnt metal smell wafted out, followed by flying specks of blackened rust. Will did try to turn a few knobs with a wrench and made a half-hearted effort to adjust the crumbling paneling, but even Derek knew that the furnace was beyond repair.

“I _can’t_ believe I overlooked the HVAC system,” Will kept on repeating, in horror. “I fixed everything else in the Haus but I overlooked the _heating unit_.”

“Dude, none of this looks energy-efficient,” Derek said, peeking into the wiring. “I can’t believe Shitty didn’t drag it out to the lawn and set it on fire.”

Will gave him a Look. “If it hadn’t shut itself down, Shitty wouldn’t need to drag it anywhere to set it on fire.”

Derek whistled, low.

When they left the basement, Will immediately went for their room. Derek followed him. “What are you doing now?”

“We don’t have a space heater in the Haus,” Will said, as he slipped his coat off a hanger. “So I’m getting one.”

“Dude, they’re really piling it on outside,” Derek pointed out, waving to the window. Snow had already gathered at the bottom of the frame, and there was no view out beyond a few inches of twirling flakes. “You do _not_ want to go out there.”

Will flapped his mittens in the air. “Then what should we do, then? This place doesn’t even have hot water bottles, what the _heck_ —”

“We—” And this was when Derek realized he had not thought this through. Not at all. “We—do what we usually do,” he finished, pathetically.

“What?”

“Share body heat,” he said, determined not to let his gaze waver.

Will paled. Derek prepared himself for a lot of amusing spluttering—to distract Derek from that strange sensation bubbling up in his own chest—but ultimately, acquiescence. What he didn’t expect was Will turning away, retrieving a rubber boot, and saying, “No.”

Derek’s throat constricted. “Why not? You were fine the first time we did it—”

“We didn’t _do_ anything,” Will snapped.

Derek forced himself to calm down, to not rise at the tone of Will’s voice as he had done with so many other strangers—because Will was not a stranger.

“You’re not making sense,” Derek said evenly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Will was pulling on his Samwell scarf, ignoring him.

“Will. You’ve been acting weirdly ever since we were watching Jack and Bitty earlier—”

Will threw his hat and mittens on the floor. He was breathing heavily.

Then he said, “I’m gay, okay? I’m gay.” He flung the words out like they were weapons, but the tendons in his neck jumped, as though he was flinching from them himself. “I don’t want to cuddle with you again because I’m gay and I planned on telling you guys at some point but I don’t want to if you’re going to look at me later like I fucking _lied_ to you or something and tried to cop a feel in the middle of the night all the while knowing—”

And here Derek pulled Will into a hug. He buried Will’s face against his neck, because sometimes Will just needed someone to shut him up when he started talking about stupid shit, and Will knew it.

Sure enough, Will made a few angry noises at first, and then he was shuddering loudly, violently, over and over—but less so each time.

Seeing how Will was reacting now made Derek feel a little guilty for all those times he secretly hoped that Will was gay. It always made a certain amount of sense. Will never took girls home from parties, though Derek had written that off as him not liking one-night-stands, or being too much of a lightweight like Chowder to pull a serious move at Haus parties. As far as Derek knew, Will dated only one girl in their freshman year, a brief relationship that started with coffee and ended a few dates later with pleasant goodbyes. And when Derek genuinely thought Will was a homophobic fucker in that first semester, he had thought, in his more uncharitable moments, that Will’s discomfort around his own pansexuality was probably the closeted kind.

When they got to know each other better, any thought that strayed toward that direction was pushed the other way with the simple belief that Shitty’s obnoxiousness had worked: no one on Samwell Men’s Hockey _had_ to stay closeted, so of course no one _would_. Bitty became their captain by a unanimous vote, for instance. But that wasn’t true, was it? Jack was an example, though his reasons were likely very different from Will’s. And Derek knew what Will’s parents thought about any sexual orientation that deviated from straight—Will had just ranted about that to him a few days ago.

“You’re not making sense, bro,” he said lightly. “You know I’m the last person to assume shit like that based off who you like to sleep with.”

Will made some more indiscernible noises.

“Hey, welcome to the queer fam, bruh,” Derek said. “I’ll hand you the Gay Agenda when you’re ready to see it. There’s a lot of catch up on, but it’s pretty lit. You’re also not allowed to wear anything with fewer than seven colors on it anymore.”

Will peeled himself off Derek. His eyes were puffy and red. Derek was going to be a good bro and pretend he didn’t see that. “Please stop,” Will said, a little weakly, but still with a smile.

“I’m glad you told me,” Derek said seriously. “How’re you feeling?”

Will’s eyes drifted away. “Fine. Thanks.” He coughed. “Sorry. For earlier. I shouldn’t have. You know. Shout.”

Derek smiled. “Now are you ready for some big gay platonic cuddling?” Derek thought it over and corrected, “Big queer platonic cuddling?”

“There will be no cuddling,” Will told him. “And I’m going to shower first.”

When Will returned, Derek had tucked himself comfortably below three layers of blankets: his own, Will’s, and Chowder’s teal Sharks cover spread out in glorious relief. Will looked unimpressed. Derek shrugged.

“Chowder said we could,” Derek said, shaking his phone. “Also, Jack and Bitty finally escaped the paparazzi to text us.”

“What’d they say?” asked Will, climbing over the covers and leaning into Derek now without hesitation. And Derek found himself caught by the smell of Will’s shampoo and, again, the clean, masculine scent of Will himself.

Derek started to answer his question, but the sound that came out of his chest wasn’t anything comprehensible in English. Will looked at him quizzically, and Derek shoved the phone into Will’s hand. “You can read it yourself,” he said quickly.

Will accepted it and shot a small, shy grin at Derek, and Derek abruptly remembered why he had been panicking over this arrangement earlier. Now, watching Will scroll through the pages of messages in the groupchat, Derek was hit once more with a strange sensation that he realized was panic. He couldn’t believe he had just positioned himself as Will’s gay mentor. He was twenty. He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s gay mentor. He was good at arguing about LGBTQ rights, but he’d never mentored anyone. Children cried when they saw him. All he would have on his resume was “dated a few people who weren’t girls.” What if he let down his best friend?

Will, who lived in Maine most of his life, had not gotten used to sleeping in anything heavier than a pair of shorts and a T-shirt while in Samwell. When he slid into the covers and accidentally brushed his thigh against Derek’s, Derek felt the spot burn hot and cold. He told himself he didn’t feel it, because mentors didn’t hold inappropriate thoughts about their mentee’s skin.

“I love how Bitty writes an entire essay on how much he loves every one of us, and what a delight being part of the team is, and how many pies he’s already planning on baking,” Will said, his lips quirking up, “while Jack’s like, ‘Thank you for all your support. We really appreciate it.’”

“That’s Jack and Bitty,” Derek agreed, still hyperaware of Will’s presence.

“You can totally tell how Jack is really emotional when he doesn’t reference hockey _at all_.” He returned the phone. “I hope it works out for them.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, leaving his phone plugged in the charger. “It’s going to be hard for them, but the social media responses have been pretty positive so far. They’ll be fine. They have each other.”

They did end up cuddling later, because Samwell was being hit by a freak snowstorm and it was cold. Derek pointed this out to Will, but all Will said, snugly tucked into the crook of Derek’s neck, was “Shut up.” The feeling of Will’s lips against his skin did render Derek rather immobile for the rest of the night.

 

5.

 

Dex returned to the Haus at midnight. He had just completed his natural language processing final project with his two other partners, and he felt so high on it that he thought he could jump into the air and accidentally punch a hole in the ceiling if he wasn’t careful enough.

Only Bitty was on the first floor, refrigerating cupcakes while talking to someone on the phone. Jack, most likely, by the look on Bitty’s face.

It was kind of fascinating how Dex could see Jack and Bitty’s face plastered over every major newspaper and magazine in the country as “GAY ICONS OF THE DECADE” while still seeing Bitty, and sometimes Jack too, standing there in the Haus kitchen, baking up a magical pie. Bitty hated the headlines—said they were exaggerations—and hated the attention it brought to the team, especially the questions to him and Coach Murray and Coach Hall about Samwell’s hockey culture and possible improprieties directed by the more salacious magazines.

But it had been more than a month now. They had finished the rounds of interviews George had scheduled for them. Jack did not have a dramatic fall from grace in the hockey field. Bitty had begun receiving fewer hate mail (which Dex, Nursey, and Chowder burned) and letters of excessive admiration (which they left to Bitty to deal with). The excitement had faded—there was more shit in the world for people to worry about than what a boring old couple like Jack and Bitty did in their private lives.

That said, it was still an awkward time to come out to his teammates in the Haus, and the alumni he had been close to. But he did, a few weeks after Thanksgiving Break. At Nursey’s advice, he came out to Chowder first, because Chowder was his best friend and, as Nursey predicted, would give him the confidence he needed for the others. Nursey was right. Chowder was delighted and so happy for him, asked all the right questions in all the right ways, and promised to set him up with all of the cutest guys in Samwell so they could finally double-date. After that, Dex told Bitty and the rest of the Samwell Men’s Hockey groupchat. Then the rest of his teammates.

He still hadn’t said anything to his parents, and he didn’t know if he would in the near future. But he would take this little accomplishment for what it was and let the glow of it stick around for a while.

That said, right now Dex was in such a good mood that he wasn’t even going to wait in the corner with the fine jar and pounce at the first pet name he heard. So he just nodded to his captain and went to his room.

Nursey was lying in his bed, one leg crossed over the other, an arm covering his eyes. His literary criticism textbook was laid open on the floor. He had his headphones on. The lines along his shoulders were clear and tense.

Dex stopped at the door.

Nursey had these moments when he was, as he told Dex once, “low on chill.” It was one of those things Nursey didn’t like to talk about, or wasn’t ready. Dex pieced together some bits of the truth over the past two years, and he suspected he still didn’t understand all of it, but he knew it was Nursey’s way of shutting himself off from the world. The signs of it were ever-changing and malleable, and Dex wouldn’t be able to come up with a list if asked, but he could always tell. Like now.

“Hey,” he said. Nursey lifted his arm. “What’re you listening to?”

Sometimes the reason Nursey entered his no-chill zone was because he needed to be angry about white people in peace, and having Dex around really wouldn’t help matters. And Dex, despite whatever other differences they might have, could understand that. He had slept over at Chowder’s before, just like Chowder sometimes did here when the three of them talked deep into the night.

But now Nursey quirked up one side of his lips. “I’ll show you,” he offered.

“Really?” Dex said, even though he was shedding his backpack and jacket already and climbing into the bottom bunk.

“Mm,” Nursey said, scooting to fit Dex in his bed. “You need to get educated in good music at some point in your life.”

And alright. Dex did like ATCQ, but he wasn’t going to concede to Nursey having nice taste in music just off _one_ group.

He put on the headphones expecting another hip-hop or R&B group—to navigate his blackness in the white world of ice hockey as a biracial kid, as Nursey put it once. Instead, there were bright, playful piano notes chasing after one another in strings of melody. He raised his eyebrows at Nursey.

“Eroica Variations,” Nursey shrugged. “Beethoven. You’re listening to a cover of it by Claudio Arrau. He was a pretty famous pianist. The quality’s not the greatest, but I like it.”

“You’re like a freaking teen soap love interest,” Dex told him. “You’re popular with girls, you read and write poetry, and you listen to classical music.” Dex peered at him. “Are you also a transfer student?”

“Shut up,” Nursey laughed.

Nursey pulled up his earphones sometime later so they could both listen to it, Nursey in his right ear and Dex in his left. Nursey prompted Dex to talk about the greatest and most inane things that happened to Dex that day: finding a spider in his shoes after practice; eating a cupcake stuffed with wasabi that Ransom and Holster had tricked him into; yelping after he finished his project and invoking the wrath of a librarian; others.

“Anything happen today?” Dex asked afterwards, careful.

“Naw.” Nursey tilted his face toward Dex. “You know, just a lot of little things.”

“Oh?” Dex asked, anchoring his arm between Nursey’s pillow and the side of his head. “Like what?”

“You know. End of the semester in general. Argued with my dad a bit. One classmate was being a bit of an asshole. Got stuck on a section of my Twentieth Century Lit essay. Little things.” His eyes flicked left and right—searching Dex’s. “It’s chill now.”

He gave Dex a small smile, like Dex was the most wonderful thing he had laid eyes upon, and Dex’s chest tightened to see him so openly free with himself. Between them, Nursey’s phone shuffled to an Andra Day song.

It occurred to Dex that their faces were awfully close to each other—that if he leaned down just a bit, or if Nursey reached up, their lips would touch. Maybe he was under the spell of the music, or maybe he was just lulled in by Nursey’s presence, but Dex didn’t flinch back at the thought. Rather, he let it spread, laid it out for light, amused touches of examination. If only, if only.

“You’re so tense still,” Nursey said, tucking his right arm behind his head to inch closer to Dex. Then—and there was no explanation for this—he reached out with his other hand to smooth back the hair by Dex’s temple. And Nursey’s hand was still on Dex’s skin, sliding back to rest on the nape of his neck. That definitely wasn’t helping with Dex’s tenseness.

Nursey’s smile had melted away into something more serious now. Dex thought he didn’t dare to breathe.

“Lie your head down, why don’t you?” Nursey muttered.

“Chillax?” Dex teased lightly.

“Chillax,” Nursey agreed.

So Dex did.

Nursey’s pillow was soft, and smelled clean and comforting, like Nursey. Nursey never broke eye contact. He was smiling now in a self-deprecating way, like he knew that he was being ridiculous, that this whole situation was absurd, that Dex was going to leave him any moment now—but he was going along with this anyway. It was wanting without asking. Dex wanted to tell him he _was_ being ridiculous, with that whole train of thought that maybe other people couldn’t read, but to him was plain as day. But he didn’t think Nursey would want to hear that.

Nursey was rubbing soothing circles over the base of Dex’s neck. It felt good. Dex couldn’t help himself but lean into it. He also felt that the wrong person was being comforted, and the wrong person doing the comforting. But Nursey seemed to need this—someone else to take care of, to keep him grounded. It was an unpleasant reminder that his silent self-destructive tendencies hadn’t gone away completely: Nursey couldn’t lash out at the outside world, so he lashed out at himself. Dex knew none of this these issues couldn’t be fixed in a few weeks’ time, just as he could feel his own heartbeat ramp up any time his own sexuality came into a conversation, but he wished they could be.

The tracks went through a couple of rounds of other vocalists, before it hit on another instrumental piece. Low; the bows of the violins measuring out meticulous, grinding notes. Then it shifted to a piano solo: airy, dancing, uncaring, until it was replaced by the lighthearted play of the orchestra, the true heart of the piece. It sounded nontraditional. Probably the soundtrack to one of those indie films Nursey was always pestering him about.

By this time Nursey had returned his hands to his side, and Dex had closed his eyes. Then halfway through the song, Dex felt Nursey shift on his side of the bed, and he opened his eyes. God, he had almost fallen asleep—it was probably late—he couldn’t believe he lost track of time like this, it was kind of embarrassing.

“Hey, sorry, man,” Dex muttered as he yawned and began to lift himself up. “I should—”

“Can you stay?”

The question didn’t surprise him as much as Nursey’s saying it. It was carefully stripped of all emotion—intonation normal, no stuttering—but the question itself said it all. It was wanting. It was Nursey expressing his own wanting. Nursey didn’t ask questions like these often, not when he was being serious. He rarely felt free to place the burden of answering on the other person.

And anyway. Now that Dex knew Nursey didn’t mind him lying here—didn’t mind at all—someone would have to fight him to pry him away.

Nursey glanced up at him and quickly looked away. He was tense again. But Dex beat him to the punch before he could say anything.

“Yeah,” Dex said. “Of course.”

 

+1.

 

The end of the semester, Derek thought.

The end of the year too, soon. In a blink of an eye it would be the end of his junior year, then—in another blink—the end of his college career. Then all of it, existence itself, swept along by the tides of time.

Or something.

“Nursey.”

Derek released himself from the stupor he had fallen into while packing his bags. His roommate was standing at the door frame, staring at him, panting heavily. There was an urgency there, even though they had just seen each other for team breakfast that morning, where Will was Will as he had always been, quietly chiseling a place for himself in a space that didn’t. Derek did love him for that, and much more too.

When it was decided by a farce last semester that they were to room together, Derek was boyishly delighted. He had reasoned it out to himself as such: He would be rooming with one of his best friends and, of course, his greatest enemy. He and Will were going to be arguing day and night. It was going to be _fun_ and _horrible_ at the same time.

What he hadn’t expected was this light, dazzling calm they had now. He felt so happy around Will.

Taking in all these thoughts, Derek said, “’Sup.”

“Hey,” Will replied, a little out-of-breath, but his eyes shining. These past months had been a good look on Will. He smiled so often now. “Hey.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Hey?” he repeated, because he couldn’t resist teasing Will.

Will flushed and shook his head slightly—recalling something. “Um. Yeah.” He bit his lips. He came into the room, finally, and sat on Derek’s chair, by the failing sunlight. “Hey, um, I have something to ask you.”

“Yeah?” Derek said, as he picked a sock off the ground. His or Will’s? Probably his, but probably also worn by Will. He weighed it in his hand and wondered if it was heavy enough for him to throw at Will’s face from this distance. Well. He was an athlete. He could make it work.

But then Will said, “So,” and his voice hit a peculiar pitch, and Derek refocused.

Will’s face was doing that dumb thing it did when he was nervous: his mouth slightly ajar, his eyes wide and round like a doe’s. It was impossible not to want to hug him when he was like this.

Derek glanced at the wristwatch he didn’t wear, and squinted his eyes over to the window. “Any day now, Poindexter.”

And Will flushed again. “Right.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked down. “Right. So, I talked to Chowder and he agreed with what I said—well, he didn’t really _agree_ but he understood where I was coming from so really it’s the same thing— Anyway, what’s important is that he agreed to what I asked him to do, so really—that’s the—most important thing.”

Derek leaned against the top bunk of their bed to survey Will. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Right.” Will glanced up at Derek and quickly shifted his gaze to the left. He coughed. “So basically, he agreed that he would be willing to switch beds with you if you—would happen to want to—in the future—”

“You want me to move out?” Derek asked.

“No,” Will said, looking at up him with the same horror Derek must have let leak from his own tone. Ah, he had learned to let go of his defenses so quickly with Will. “No, no. I—no. It’s fine _if_ you want to move out.”

“I— Why would I?”

It was the wrong question entirely. Or, that was, it would have been the wrong question to ask not even two months ago. He would have needed to weave and prevaricate, spin something out—“But the rent is cheaper,” “But my things are already here,” or “But I can’t throw dirty laundry at you from there.”

Now Will took his question without a blink.

“I—” Will looked at him, pleading. “I like you, Nurse. I—” He let out a long breath, laughing. “I really, really like you. I want to date you. Be your—boyfriend, partner, whatever.” He bit his lip, and Derek followed the movement on instinct. Then Will opened his mouth, and his lips went through quick motions, the next words changing as rapidly as his thoughts, before Will finally settled on, “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Derek was so engrossed in all of this that he almost didn’t hear the next words.

“That’s why I asked Chowder. And I figured—if he’s willing to switch with one of the two of us, you know, it might as well be the person who wants to leave— And I get it if you want to do it, you know, I get it. It’s not a no homo thing but, just, a discomfort. So. Feel free to tell me to fuck right off. And I get it. But.” He stopped abruptly. Then, smiling sadly, he asked, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

What could he say?

So Derek pushed himself off the bunk bed frame and took three clean strides across the room to kiss William J. Poindexter square on the lips.

“Dumb,” was what Derek whispered, fervently, when they broke apart.

“That’s you,” was Will’s reply, just as hoarse.

Derek laughed. “God, I really like you. Are we doing this like middle-schoolers?” He grinned and touched his forehead against Will’s. “I really like you too, Dex. Yes. I want to be your boyfriend or partner or whatever too.”

“You can’t stop making fun of me for one moment—”

Then Derek grabbed Will by those dumb plaid collars and kissed him a second time. And Will slung his arms around Derek’s neck and reciprocated just as enthusiastically.

Sometime after, the room had darkened without their noticing, and they were on Derek’s bed again because it was tradition by now, wasn’t it? It was getting harder to see the details of Will’s face: the flushes he got when Derek nipped at just the right places, or said just the right words; or the crinkles in his smile. So Derek slid his palm down the side of Will’s face and traced his thumb over the top of Will’s cheekbones—to make sure to himself that Will was still here.

“What’re you thinking? Will said, beneath him.

“Come visit me in New York over break,” Derek said, the words tumbling off his lips, and they were exactly what he wanted to say without his realizing it. “Mom will love you, and I can show you around the city.”

“Yes,” Will said at once. Then, realizing how quickly he yielded, added, “But only if you spend at least a week with me in Maine. Over summer.”

Over summer. Derek would promise him anything for the phrase “over summer.” “Sounds chill.”

“It’s a deal then?” Will asked, all serious. Nervous, Derek realized.

“Yeah,” Derek said, leaning down to kiss him. “It’s a deal.”

They shared the bed that night—and, as Derek promised, for many more nights to come.


End file.
